


Chci Tě

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2015 IIHF Ice Hockey World Championships, M/M, Public Sex, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick joins Team Canada in Prague.  Matt makes it worth his while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chci Tě

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'winding the other up in public' prompt on tumblr. It got a little out of hand and grew into a full fic.
> 
> I wrote the bulk of this the first few days of the World Championships, so line combinations were different, and I make (inaccurate) guesses at roommate assignments. Hand-wave everything else – honestly, this is a vessel for porn, and to explore the amazing combination of players on this team. 
> 
> Chci Tě means "I want you" in Czech.

Matt hasn't heard from Patrick in three days. 

Which isn't unheard of. Especially in the summer, when Patrick spends long stretches of time at the cabin, outside of cell phone range in the far reaches of Quebec, fishing and getting bitten by monster-sized insects. Or, lying on the dock, dosed in bug spray, and bragging about fish he doesn't catch. Either way, Matt always hears about it – extensively – before and after.

Patrick didn't warn him this time. He had just seen Matt off at the Denver airport with a shoulder squeeze and an order to "score goals in Prague," that Matt had taken to mean _make me proud_ and _I'll miss you_ and _come back to me_.

Which was nice, and sweet, and three days ago.

"Dutchy." Factor slams a beer down in front of Matt and sprawls in the chair across from him. 

"Thanks." Matt looks at the beer, foregoing in in favor of flipping his phone between his fingers morosely.

"Don't thank me yet." Before Matt can react, Factor dodges across the table and steals the phone. Matt slaps at Factor's hand, but he's too late, and Factor pockets it smugly. "You don't get this back until you're good and drunk." He tilts his chin, thinking. "Maybe not even then."

"Asshole." Matt means every inch of it.

"Hey, hey," Tyson chides as he falls into the chair next to them. "Not around the kids."

Matt looks up to see Nate behind him, Taylor Hall and Jordan Eberle following. Matt sighs. 

Nate flashes them both his middle finger. "Fuck off. I can drink here."

Matt rolls his eyes. "Thought I flew halfway around the world to get away from you all." 

"Ahh, Dutchy, don't you love us anymore?" Tyson bats his eyelashes, turning his shoulder towards Matt coquettishly. Matt tries not to give in, but he's been given a chance at a second season, they all have, and he can't stay mad at that for long.

He laughs, and lets it be honking and stupid.

Across the table, his phone buzzes in Factor's pocket. He shuts up, glaring daggers until Factor sighs, glances at Matt's phone, and shakes his head. "Just Jess."

Matt sighs, before slipping back down in his chair and hating how transparent he is. Hallsy pushes the pitcher his way and Matt refills his glass, grasping at the last fraying edges of his laughter.

***

He's pretty hung over the next morning. Not gonna-be-sick-on-the-ice hung over, but he does chug half a liter of coffee and spends some time dry heaving in the bathroom before he heads to practice. 

Sid provides the coffee and the glare of judgment. 

Matt misses Gabe. Gabe's an awesome captain, and he hasn't seen Matt piss behind dumpsters after nights out in Cole Harbour or blow guys behind LA clubs when he was too young to know better. Sid has seen most of Matt's embarrassing moments, and never misses an opportunity to hold them over him.

Sid has, in fact, spent the past few days using them to needle Matt about the way his line's been gelling – or, not gelling – in practice. Which, Matt maintains, isn't his fault. It should be good, simple, natural to slide in between Hallsy and Ebs and feed off their practiced chemistry. But it's not. They're off, all three of them, passing short and careful, like they don't trust each other to be where they should be.

It's frustrating. Also exhausting, and an hour practice already feels like three or four when he's at peak physical condition. Today, it takes enough of his energy that Matt's gasping for air halfway through and he almost forgets that Factor still has his phone. 

At least until he gets back to the locker room and finds it on his bench, buzzing and chirping angrily. He skims through the group convo his parents and Jess are having about travel arrangements to Prague, before deciding not to get involved and instead opens a new message.

 _where r u?_ he sends. 

Then has to convince himself that ‘are you leaving me?' would be needy and pathetic. He settles on _my dick misses u_ , which has the benefit of being both crude and true, before shoving his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and agreeing to lunch with Segs and G.

He only spends half the meal waiting for it to buzz.

***

Ebs calls a line meeting before dinner. 

"Can I come?" Sid asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet and peering over Matt's shoulder at his phone.

"It's a line meeting," Matt says, elbowing Sid out of eyesight of his screen. "Emphasis on 'line.'"

"I know, but-" Sid trails off and Matt glances up. He knows that tone.

"What?" He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

"Nothing, nothing." Sid waves him away. "Just, would be nice to get out of my room for a bit."

Matt doesn't want to go anywhere near that, so he nods towards the hotel bar, where he left Nate and Jason and a pitcher of local Czech beer with something close to 15% ABV. "Go drink with Mac. I think he's trying to initiate Spezz into some sort of Cole Harbour ritual. He's not doing very well."

"Really?" Sid perks up, patting Matt on the back and stepping around him. "See you at dinner?"

Matt nods distractedly, already thumbing over to his empty text conversation with Patrick. Still nothing. He sighs, pockets his phone, and heads upstairs, re-focusing his mind on whatever Ebs wants to go over. Zone divisions, he had said, but he'd sounded kind of cryptic about it.

Matt gets to their room a little early and knocks. He frowns as scrambling and swearing filter out into the hallway, and when Hallsy opens the door, his hair is a mess and his lips are puffy and chapped. Behind him, Ebs is sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt to try and cover the bulge hanging out of his open jeans. He's not very successful at it.

"Ahh," Matt says, because he feels stupid that he didn't know this already. "We should, um, do this later." _Over alcohol_ is implied enough not to be said.

"We don't have to-" Hallsy tries, but he's shifting uncomfortably, trying to surreptitiously adjust himself. Matt's been in this exact situation enough times not to be fooled.

"No, no, it's cool." Matt promises, meaning postponing the meeting but also whatever this is between them.

Hallsy looks grateful and Ebs makes a squeaky, relieved noise from the bed.

"Get back to what you were doing," Matt calls as he leaves, chuckling to himself. He doesn't turn to see their wide eyes and open mouths.

***

Their line plays better after that.

"I get you guys now," Matt says with a shrug when Ebs asks, looking shy and scared, like maybe Matt's bottling up his homophobia for the good of the team or something. 

That look is almost enough to make Matt tell him, if not about Patrick than at least about his own sexuality. But, they're already not careful enough back in Colorado, and this is Hockey Canada. Neither he nor Patrick have much power if things were to go south at this level.

"Um." Ebs bites his lip. "Okay?" He says, like a question.

"We're good," Matt promises, emphatically, as he pushes a beer in Ebs' direction.

Ebs eyes it a little nervously, but eventually his polite Canadian training gets the better of him and he takes a long sip.

Matt sits back, tries to ignore the way Hallsy's hand keeps disappearing under the table and the way Ebs' eyes keep going wide and soft and pink. 

Matt checks his phone. 

"Don't think I won't take that again," Factor threatens from across the table.

Matt knows he isn't lying, and he turns his phone off before shoving it in his pocket and turning all his attention to his beer.

***

By the end of the night, he's just drunk enough to need Factor's help walking in a straight line back to their room. "Thanks," Matt says, waving his hand and mostly not slurring. "Sorry I'm being such a-" He waves his hand again, to encompass _ass_ and _lovesick_ and everything in between.

Factor doesn't tell him it's all right, but he does help him onto his bed. Matt struggles out of his jeans, but can't summon the energy to do much else. Instead, he lies there, listening to Factor get undressed and brush his teeth and text his girl, before flipping off the light and encasing them both in darkness.

Matt listens, timing his thoughts to Factor's breathing as it steadies and smoothes. Thoughts about the season and his abysmal numbers and how it took so many months for him to figure out the balance between his playing life with Coach Roy and his home life with Patrick. And just when he's figured it out, Patrick- 

Factor snores and Matt lets it tip him into someplace a little reckless, a little angry, a lot stupid. He strips out of his shirt, pauses, then slips out of his boxers, too. He's still pretty soft, but a few strokes and a few thoughts about Patrick, sprayed out and open in front of him, and he's halfway there.

He snaps a picture. Makes sure that it's good enough to be enticing, but not so good that Patrick can get off to it alone, and sends it before he can think twice about it. 

Vaguely, he hopes that it doesn't make him look too desperate. He also hopes that it doesn't get lost somewhere over the Atlantic. 

He's too turned on to worry a whole lot about either.

He rolls over, his back to Factor, and wraps his fingers around his dick. He tries to go slow, barely touching, paying equal attention to his balls the way Patrick does, when they're going slow and hard and everything they really shouldn't do in the middle of the season. Patrick worships Matt's body in a way Matt never can, knows it better than Matt does, and Matt goes a little too fast, focuses a little too far to the left, brings himself to the edge much too quickly. 

Factor's snores pause, and Matt stills, his fingers tight around the base of his dick, holding himself off. His thighs tingle with it, his breathing too loud even through his clenched teeth, and he's embarrassed at how the little thrill of danger pushes him even closer to the edge.

When Factor's breathing evens out again, he wraps his fingers tightly around his dick and gives up any pretense of slow and easy. It's a little awkward, lying on his side and trying to keep his movements as shallow as possible. But his mind conjures images of Patrick, his eyes intense as he pushes Matt to a place he never knew existed before Patrick, and his hands and his mouth and his voice, syrup and strong and exactly, exactly what Matt needs. 

He's pretty sure he bites out Patrick's name as he comes, but Factor doesn't stir. It's mostly an unsatisfying orgasm either way, and Matt doesn't let himself come down before he rolls away from the wet spot and drifts off.

***

Matt hates being that guy. The guy who brings his family problems into the locker room. The guy who can't be out of touch for a few days without losing all confidence in his life choices. The guy who lets that boil over onto the ice.

It's just- It's the silence that's killing him.

He knows exactly what the night before was all about – he's big enough to admit that – but the morning after the dick pic is still the first morning he's relieved for the radio silence. The longer that goes unremarked upon, he figures, the better. 

By Patrick, anyway. Factor doesn’t have the same decencies, and he snickers when Matt rolls over blearily and reaches for his phone. Matt's pretty convinced that the embarrassment is worse than the hangover.

He doesn't know if it's the high road or the low road to slip into the shower before he has a chance to meet Factor's eyes, but whichever it is he jumps for it, both feet forward. 

When he gets out, Nate's lounging on his bed, his knees spread obscenely and his hair tangled on Matt's pillow. Factor's nowhere to be seen.

"Mornin'," Nate says around a mouthful of Cheez-Its. He's getting crumbs all over the bed and Matt shutters.

He pushes at Nate's knee as he steps around him to reach for a clean pair of boxers. As he does, his towel slips a little and he doesn't bother to catch it. "What are you doing here?"

Nate shrugs, reaching into the box for another handful of crackers. "Was supposed to go for a run with Sid, but, he wasn't answering his door."

Matt raises an eyebrow. Maybe leaving Sid in Nate and Spezz's company last night hadn't been his smartest idea. "What, did you drink him under the table?"

Nate shrugs again. "I don't think so."

Another thought occurs to Matt as he pulls his hoodie over his head and remembers what Sid was trying to escape yesterday. "Hope he and G didn't actually kill each other." 

Matt's pretty sure that it was Coach McLellan's decision to room Sid and G together, in the name of team unity or something. Matt's not a coach, but he's pretty sure it can't end well. Maybe McLellan spends too much time in the Western Conference to get how spectacularly dangerous a decision that is.

Nate shrugs a third time. "Don't think that's the problem."

It sounds like only half a statement, but Matt's too tired to push and Nate's too coy to give it up without a nudge.

***

It's a nice day, one of those first sunny spring days, and even the lingering nip isn't enough to keep them inside. So, after a hard practice and an hour or so in the gym they head to an outdoor cafe Voracek recommends to G. Local and cheap, with spectacular food. Matt makes a note to get Jakub's number later, to thank him.

Matt spreads out between Nate and Sid, rolling up his jeans and stretching his legs away from the table into the sun. 

"Ugh," G groans, from the other side of Sid, covering his eyes dramatically. "Put those away. They wound me with their paleness."

As if G isn't the palest of all of them. Matt tells him so with a raised eyebrow. 

"I have delicate ginger skin," G says, all seriousness, and drops his arm over the back of Sid's chair. If Matt wasn't glaring at him, he would have missed the way Sid leans back, just a little, just so his shoulder blades brush G's arm.

"If that's what your mother tells you," Segs chirps from G's other side. 

Spezz hits him on the back of the head, hard enough for Segs to yelp and rub at his hair. Spezz looks bored, like this is an argument they've had a hundred times already. "At least G has skin we can see."

"I have uncovered skin," Segs shoots back, "just not in places you wanna see." He waggles his eyebrows and their half of the table bursts into laughter. 

All except for Nate, whose body tightens next to Matt's. He leans across the table, tense and curious. "Did they hurt?"

Segs wipes tears from the corners of his eyes. "What? The tats?" He holds up his right arm and Nate's eyes go dark and serious. Matt stares at him, seeing him a whole new light and rearranging his mental image of Nate to fit it.

Nate nods. 

Segs shrugs. "Some, a little. Depends on where you get 'em."

"Oh. Yeah, I mean, that's what I read, but-"

"You thinking of getting some ink, Mac?" Spezz asks, in the same _you sure you wanna do that_ voice that Matt's sure he uses on his kids.

Nate shrugs. "Been thinkin' about it." Which probably means that he's had a design in mind for years, spent hours doing Google research, and probably has a whole folder on the topic hidden away in his bedroom. "You ever-?"

Spezz laughs. "Nah, my wife would kill me."

"I have," Sid says, and Matt's neck twinges, he twists so quickly to look at him.

"Really?" G asks, leaning a little closer to Sid.

Sid shrugs. "Yeah, I mean, if I ever figure out something I'd want on my skin forever."

"Could get a maple leaf. Right here." G draws a maple leaf with his finger on Sid's left shoulder, his fingers slipping under Sid's t-shirt. Sid shivers.

"Would be better than that monstrosity you've got," he snaps out, but G just laughs. His fingers still, but he doesn't take his arm from around Sid's shoulder.

"Where's yours?" Nate asks, innocently, but blushes as G waggles his eyebrows.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Sid's face turns red.

Matt thinks about it, getting a maple leaf or the Olympic Rings, or the Avs 'A.' Maybe in the middle of his back, or on his collarbone, or in the hollow of his hip, in that little dip Patrick's always so focused on.

He pulls out his phone and types out _thinking about getting a tat_. He regrets it immediately.

***

With Gabe not here, Matt knows he should be watching out for his teammates. He should definitely have been paying more attention after lunch, when Nate slipped off with Segs, their heads bent together as the laughed nervously. All good deeds in retrospect, though, and there's nothing Matt can do about the cellophane wrapped around Nate's wrist when they get back to the hotel a couple hours later.

"He was a champ," Segs compliments, slapping his hand on Nate's shoulder and grinning.

Nate shrugs, but it's a little gingerly. "It wasn't so bad."

He's holding his wrist in front of him, like he's not sure what to do with it now that the deed is done. Matt's not sure whether he should be impressed or exasperated. He settles on the first, and is just leaning down to try and get a look at it through the plastic when Nate snatches it away, hiding his wrist behind his back and standing straighter.

"Shit. Did you know he was coming?" Nate asks.

Matt frowns. "What? No. Who?" He mirrors Nate, straightening up, curiosity about Nate's tattoo still biting at his heels as he follows Nate's gaze- And forgets about everything else. 

Across the lobby, leaning against the check-in desk with badly hidden weariness, is Patrick. He's flanked by McLellan and Joe Sakic, his shoulder slumped and his bag pooled at his feet, but when he turns his head and catches Matt's gaze, his smile is genuine. 

"Um, no," Matt repeats, without turning his head to Nate. 

"Huh." Nate keeps his wrist behind his back as the group walks towards them.

Patrick reaches out, as if to touch Matt, before memory of where they are breaks through his fog of jetlag. He settles on wrapping a hand around both Nate's and Matt's necks. His fingers dig into Matt's muscles, drawing a quiet, comforting circle with his thumb in greeting.

"Hi," Matt says slowly, and, because he can't help himself and his nerves have been on edge for days, "what are you doing here?"

"Last minute scouting trip," Joe answers, as Patrick says, "thought you'd be happy we're here," encompassing all the Avs players but meaning Matt.

"Sure." Matt fingers his phone in his pocket and Patrick's eyes follow the movement.

"Was a long trip," Patrick says, matching Matt's slow tone. "We've been stuck in airport delay hell. And my phone ran out of battery minutes after we left Denver."

"Do you need me to teach you how to charge it again?" Matt tries for light, but is pretty sure he ends up somewhere around accusatory.

Patrick's thumb digs into his neck, a warning that this is the apology Matt's gonna get, so, take it or leave it. "Left the chord in my checked luggage."

"Ahh." Matt leans into his touch, too relieved that this is the answer not to take what Patrick's offering. Besides, he's probably going to be the one apologizing once his texts start coming through to Patrick's phone.

Patrick’s thumb starts moving again, slow, tantalizing circles on the back of Matt’s neck. Matt shifts, his skin alight as he starts thinking about a mid-afternoon nap with as little sleeping as possible. He presses back, his knee warm and insistent against Patrick’s, an invitation and an order, and Patrick’s fingers tense, digging into Matt’s neck, bruising and promising. 

Matt’s dick twitches and he shifts to hide it from Nate, who’s still standing awkwardly next to him, his arm tight and badly hidden behind his back. Patrick smirks, taking half-a-step forward until Matt can feel Patrick’s own dick pushing against the back of his thigh.

"You should join the team for dinner," McLellan’s saying, when Matt tunes back in, cheerful and oblivious to Matt’s predicament.

Joe, on the other hand, is watching Matt and Patrick with a raised eyebrow that Matt would ignore, if Joe didn’t have a habit of catching them in awkward moments. Even Patrick pinks, just a little below his ears, as Joe says, without looking away from them, "After a nap," with an emphasis on _nap_ that Matt really can’t think about too closely.

"I can-" He offers anyway, motioning towards one of Patrick’s bags and pulling out of his grasp to heft it over his shoulder. "Figured you could use some help, after such a long flight."

"Just might," Patrick agrees casually, picking up his other bag, taking a step towards the elevators, and stopping when they open and Sid spills out, dressed in his Team Canada sweats and carrying a large case of beer.

He lights up when he catches sight of Matt and Nate. "Ahh, just who I was looking for. Team meeting, Green Room."

"We-?" Matt starts, then stops, trying to think of the best way to protest, before finally just waving at Patrick. "I was gonna help Patrick up to his room."

"Oh." Sid’s face falls, and he gives a little wave to Patrick. "I, ahh, put the meeting on your calendar."

"Um, I haven’t checked my phone today." Matt shrugs, trying for casual, but next to him Patrick stiffens and Matt wants to swear. He doesn't really want Patrick to know how worried he was, not if he can help it, and not in front of Sid and McLellan. 

He isn’t hard anymore.

"Oh, well, video review." Sid holds up the case. "And I brought beer, since it’s not, you know, a sanctioned team thing."

Matt wants to argue, he really does, but Sid has that look on his face, the one that says they have a chance, here, to win big, if they just put in a little extra work and if he has to, Sid will do it for all of them. Matt’s been friends with Sid for too long to let him down like this, even if his dick hangs in the balance.

"Good thing you brought beer."

Sid grins. Patrick nudges Matt’s elbow, both frustrated and proud. Matt supposes his frustration can wait a few more hours – it's already waited out days - as he hands over Patrick’s bag and follows Sid and Nate to the Green Room.

***

The meeting is long.

Even with the beer, it's a lot of video and whining and guys forgetting where they're supposed to be, on the big ice and in their new line combinations. As if they haven't already been practicing for days. But, can't take a hockey player off the ice, or however that saying goes.

They're halfway through Latvia's last 2014 World Championship game when Matt's phone buzzes in his pocket, pulling him out of a half-doze. It's a selfie, Patrick's hair sleep-tousled and his eyes slitted and dark. Matt curses whoever taught him how to flip the camera on his phone - Jana, probably, though Jonathan's always a possibility - as his dick twitches against his thigh.

He leans forward, hiding the half-bulge in his sweatpants under the pretense of reaching for a beer. He takes a sip as he sits back, crossing his ankle over his knee and resting the bottle in his lap. As Sid pauses the video to make a point about their power play, Matt presses down, just a hint of pressure against his dick.

His phone buzzes twice against his thigh and he turns it over carefully.

_getting in the shower_

_thinking about you_

Matt closes his eyes against the images of Patrick, still sleep-rough and slow, climbing into the shower naked, covered in soap, his hand slippery and wet against his dick.

Matt groans.

Nate elbows him in the ribs, hard enough to hurt. Matt's bottle slips, pressing a little too hard, and he groans again.

Nate shakes his head, his voice low and serious. "Don’t let Sid catch you."

Matt gestures pointedly at Nate’s still plastic-wrapped wrist, but turns his phone off anyway, slipping it into his pocket and tossing a tube of goop at him. "Take care of your tramp stamp."

"Tramp stamps are only on your ass."

Matt shrugs casually.

Nate falters, turning to Segs, who looks about three beers in and drowsy on his other side. "Right?"

Segs opens one eye. "For sure." Matt’s pretty sure he has no idea what he’s agreeing with.

At the front of the room, Sid crosses his arms and pauses the video. "Hey, you can chat amongst yourselves or you can win a gold medal, what’s it gonna be?"

All three of them straighten, nodding in triplet.

Sid nods once, proud of himself, and restarts the game.

At least Matt isn’t hard anymore.

***

Video review lasts a long time, and then Sid guilts Matt into staying behind to clean up, killing whatever plans Matt might have had of sneaking into Patrick's room before dinner.

Matt's already a little buzzed, too, so it takes extra long to pack up the folding chairs and pick up the empty bottles. He's almost done when he trips over one of the last chairs, reaching out to keep from falling and only managing to wobble against the back of the rickety chair and fall into it ungracefully.

Giroux laughs from where he's sitting in the back of the room, knees spread and bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He nods appreciatively at Matt's sprawled figure. "Like a swan, Dutchy."

"Fuck off." Matt settles in the chair, slumping against it and glaring at Sid. "Why doesn't he have to help?"

Sid glances up from the garbage bag he's holding, his cheeks a little flushed and his smile fond around his faux frown. "I can't make G do anything."

Giroux tips his bottle towards Sid.

Matt frowns. "Didn't know that was an option."

Giroux laughs. "That's your problem, you always do the right thing."

"Do not," Matt snaps. "Back me up, Sid."

"Um." Sid bites his lip, throwing Matt a guilty look before he says, apologetically, "You kinda like to be told what to do, eh?" 

Matt really wants to argue, but he thinks about Patrick. About that tone Patrick only uses when he's whispering orders in Matt's ear. About Patrick's fingers, long and strong around Matt's wrists. About how it feels to touch himself while Patrick watches, fast and slow and in whatever rhythm Patrick gives him.

Sid shrugs knowingly, before adding, all seriousness and more than a bit defensive. "It's not a bad thing."

Matt tries, valiantly, not to think about what Sid likes and doesn't like in the bedroom.

"I'll drink to that." Claude grins like he already has Sid tied to his headboard and tosses beers in their direction, opening a new one of his own. 

To Matt's surprise, Sid drops the recycling bag and leans against Matt's chair with a forced casualness that looks awkward on him. "We can finish later," he says defensively when he sees Matt watching him.

Matt holds up his hands, "Whatever my Captain says."

Sid laughs, the loud, honking laugh that only leaves him in fits when he finds something really, really funny.

Claude grins, leaning forward to clink his bottle against Matt's.

Matt's head hurts from all the tension in the room. He really wants Patrick to get him off.

***

Matt's still feeling pretty frustrated, buzzed, and on edge when they get to the steak house down the street from the hotel. They're the last three to arrive and relegated to the coaches' end of the table. Not that Matt minds as he slips into the seat across from Patrick, between Nate and Hallsy.

"Did I miss anything?"

"No," Nate says, too quickly, looking relieved as Matt bumps his shoulder. He's still cradling his arm under the table. 

"Nice of you to join us." Patrick's voice is just a little bit lower than usual, just enough for Matt to notice.

Matt feels his buzz softening and he reaches for the beer in front of him. It's probably Hallsy's, but he doesn't care. "Miss me?"

Patrick shrugs, but his eyes are dark and he doesn't look away. "Always."

Nate coughs, Hallsy looks confused, and Matt's pretty glad that the waitress interrupts them. 

"So," Patrick continues, slowly, once they’ve ordered. "I found my charger. Seems I missed a few texts the last couple days."

Matt forces himself to slump casually, his knees spread easily under the table and his fingers loose around his – Hallsy's - glass. "Anything interesting?"

"Mmm." Patrick takes a long sip of his drink, not breaking eye contact. "A few, oui."

"Care to share?"

"I could be convinced."

"You know-" Matt leans forward, arching his back and angling his neck towards Patrick. He’s wearing a Team Canada v-neck, he hasn’t shaved in a few days, and he knows just how much Patrick likes to mark Matt’s collarbone. "You never know what can happen when you leave us for a few days."

Next to him, Nate chokes, hisses "Dutchy" under his breath and buries his head in his arms.

It breaks through Matt's buzz, bringing him back to the table as he chuckles a little guiltily. "Um," he bites his lip, "that wasn’t- Mac, I didn’t mean you."

"Oh." Mac’s face is red, a little blotchy, young and open and caught.

It’s too late, though. Nate’s arm is resting on the table and Patrick’s eyes are caught on the plastic around Nate’s wrist. "New?"

"Um." Nate massages the back of his neck. "Yeah, uh, this afternoon. I didn’t- If I knew you were coming-" Nate trails off, shifting in his chair, as Segs leans over from his other side.

"Don’t apologize for amazing art." Segs checks his watch. "I think it’s about time, anyway. Can I?"

Nate glances at Patrick, bites his lip, and nods. Segs unwraps the plastic carefully, then pulls a tube out of his pocket and rubs it onto the new tattoo.

"Baller." Segs grins, nudging Nate’s shoulder. "Show it off, come on."

His face still flushed, Nate holds out his wrist. Patrick and Matt both lean forward, their heads bend together to see it. Mountains, with water lines next to them, about two inches high on the inside of his wrist.

"For, ahh, Denver and, um, Cole Harbour," Nate explains, still biting his lips, still waiting for Patrick’s judgment. Matt wishes Sid and Claude were watching, just so they’d know that he isn’t the only one who lives and dies by Patrick’s approval. 

"It’s pretty cool," Matt tells him.

Nate grins, and maybe Patrick's isn't the only approval he was looking for. "Yeah?"

Matt nods as Patrick hums. "Nice choice."

Nate's smile broadens and he settles back in his chair, looking calmer than he has in hours. His wrist is resting easily against the table and he’s pleased with himself as he grins out a "thanks" and turns to ask Segs his long list of after-care questions.

"Ever thought about getting one?" Patrick asks, conversationally, only the lift of his eyebrow letting Matt know that he got the text, the one Matt sent him only hours ago, admitting to exactly that.

Matt shrugs. "Maybe."

"If I ever did, I’d get my Stanley Cup rings." Patrick circles his middle finger.

"Would be a lot of tattoos."

"Would," Patrick agrees, holding up four fingers but carefully not including his left ring finger. Matt tries not to think too hard about that, and instead focuses on the heavy feel of his dick at the thought of dark ink around Patrick’s other fingers.

"I always figured I’d get one here." Matt arches his hips so that Patrick can see him across the table. He lifts his shirt and pushes his jeans down to trace that spot on his hipbone, just under his waistline, that Patrick likes so much.

Patrick swallows and shifts uncomfortably on his chair. Next to Patrick, Joe looks up from his own conversation and Matt instantly drops his hips, pushing his chair further under the table.

Patrick waves Joe away, but they played together for too long for Joe to take any of Patrick’s claims to innocence. Plus, Matt's pretty sure that Joe heard them in Patrick's office, the day before he left for Prague. He doesn't want to talk about it here, though, where he’d have to desert his country to get away from the fallout.

Instead, he focuses on his salad when it arrives, picking at his lettuce and multi-colored radishes as if he’s never seen them before. He hears Patrick chuckle, and, a few minutes later, his resolve is broken when feels Patrick’s ankle against his under the table. It’s the first time they’ve touched, beyond that neck squeeze in the lobby, and Matt’s embarrassed at how immediately his body responds.

He shrugs out of his hoodie, wrapping it around the back of his chair as he scoots closer to the edge of his seat, stretching his leg out to rub his foot along Patrick’s calf.

Patrick smiles into his salad. "Is it a little hot in here?"

"A little," Matt agrees.

"Mmm." Patrick finishes his salad, pushing it away and looking at Matt until Matt squirms in his seat. He taps out a frustrated rhythm with his foot against Patrick’s, just to make sure that Patrick knows exactly how desperate he is, in case his texts over the last few days haven’t been convincing enough.

Patrick’s smirking to himself as he pushes back from the table and asks the waiter where the bathroom is in some mix of French and English and Czech that he picked up from god knows where.

He’s gone long enough that Matt’s wondering if he misinterpreted some sign that was meant for him to follow. He’s just about to excuse himself from his conversation with Hallsy when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Matt fishes it out as he apologizes and opens the text without thinking.

And almost drops his phone.

It’s a dick pic. Not much more artfully taken than Matt’s had been, and it’s not helped by the artificially yellow bathroom lighting. But it’s still Patrick, still a dick he knows better than his own, and Matt twitches against his thigh, leaking precome into the inseam of his jeans.

Hallsy tilts his head to get a better view of Matt’s phone and coughs his beer back into his glass.

Matt locks his phone with shaky fingers and gingerly places it, face down, on the table. "Sorry?" He offers.

Hallsy looks shell-shocked for a moment, then shrugs, taking another long swallow. "Payback’s a bitch." He smiles a little brighter. "And now I’m pretty glad you’re the one who caught us."

"True." Matt taps his fingers against the back of his phone, feeling like he should apologize or at least say something more in agreement, but the picture is seared behind his eyelids and he’s still hard and pulsing in his tight jeans. "I, um, should have told you. That morning."

Hallsy waves him away. "Nah, whatever you need to do, eh?"

"Thanks."

Hallsy tips his head, dropping his voice with a shit-eating grin, and Matt’s never noticed how big his mouth is before. "If you wanna tell me who it is, though-"

"I really don’t."

"Okay, okay." Hallsy holds up his palms in surrender. "Got a nice dick, whoever he is. Not as nice as Ebs’, but-"

"Stop talking." Matt tries to think about Ebs’ dick, hoping it’ll cure his own. It doesn’t work.

Hallsy laughs, holding up his glass. "Okay, no more talk about it, but, cheers to landing ourselves some nice-looking dicks."

Matt can’t help but laugh as he knocks their glasses together, takes a swallow, and almost chokes it out again as Patrick comes back to the table. He’s undone the top few buttons of his shirt and his skin is flushed smug and aroused and Matt’s not sure he’s going to make it through the main course.

Patrick picks up a conversation with Joe and McLellan, radiating casualness as he spreads his knees under the table. His pants are too dark to see anything, but Matt knows what Patrick looks like when he's hard in his pants, curving to the left and tucked into the waistband of his briefs. Stretching the fabric, damp and expensive and wanting everyone to see but only Matt to touch.

Matt reaches down, pressing the heel of his hand against the head of his dick where it's trapped between bare thigh and denim. His hips twitch unconsciously, and he forces his hand still, just a small amount of pressure, unmoving, not at all what he wants.

Across the table, Patrick’s not looking at him, but his whole body is taught and strung out and Matt knows that he’s watching out of the corner of his eye. Matt watches as Patrick shifts in his chair, taking too long to pull out his phone and Matt really wishes that he could see what Patrick’s hand is doing under the table.

Next to his elbow, his phone buzzes and Matt picks it up, glancing at Hallsy. Hallsy’s busy moaning over his prime rib and making eyes at Ebs from a half a table down, but Matt turns his phone away anyway.

 _hasn’t been touched in a week_ , a caption for the picture.

Matt’s hands stutter as he types back, _not at all?_

Patrick shakes his head as he reads the text, typing back, _not even by me._

 _i can take care of that_.

Before waiting for a response, Matt slips out of his flip-flop and trails his foot up Patrick’s leg, not stopping at his calf this time. He wiggles his toes as he climbs up Patrick’s thigh, before settling his ankle on the chair between Patrick’s legs and angling his foot to press where he knows Patrick’s dick will be.

Patrick shivers in his chair and leans forward, pretending to focus on cutting his steak, so that the bulk of his body hides Matt’s foot. Matt grins down at his own steak as he arches his toes against Patrick, feeling him hot and steady and twitching through Patrick’s pants.

Patrick pushes into it, his entire body taught, and Matt doesn’t move for the few minutes it takes to finish eating. Not beyond twitches of his toes and tilting his foot so that his ankle presses up and into Patrick’s balls.

Patrick moans into his fork, his eyes slipping closed, and Matt’s had enough. He tilts his head towards the door, already reaching for his wallet as Patrick drops his fork and drops a few korunas next to his plate.

"I’m still tired from my flight, going to head back to the hotel. Enjoy the rest of your meal, gentlemen."

Matt digs out a few bills and pushes his chair back. "I’m pretty tired, too. I’m gonna go back with Patrick, make sure he knows the way."

Matt ignores the way Joe smiles into his plate and Nate chokes on his water. Hallsy’s eyes go wide and bright in recognition, staring from Patrick to Matt and back to Matt’s phone, and Matt mouths ‘later’ before following Patrick out of the restaurant.

Patrick’s walking fast, his hand a warm pressure on the small of Matt’s back, as Matt steers them back to the hotel, never more grateful that the team hasn’t wandered more than a few blocks away.

"You don’t know what you do to me," Patrick murmurs, low and hot, against Matt’s neck as they walk.

Matt uses the anonymity of the crowded streets to press the back of his palm between Patrick's legs. "I’ve got a pretty good idea."

Patrick groans, his whole body shuttering, and walks faster.

The lobby is empty when they get back, and the concierge nods at them as they pass. Matt doesn’t spare more than the quickest of smiles as Patrick’s hand tightens on his back and pushes him into a semi-dark alcove before the elevator bays, next to vending machines selling Coke and ham-flavored Czech chips.

"You have a room, upstairs," Matt gets out, before Patrick kisses him. He uses his whole body, slipping into Matt’s mouth as his hands scramble under Matt’s shirt, grasping at his skin with weak fingers.

"I missed you," Patrick whispers, between kisses, and Matt gives up the fight.

He grasps at Patrick’s hips, already arching around Matt’s thigh, and lets Patrick set the pace. "You too," he admits, turning his head and letting Patrick suck a dark, obvious mark into Matt’s pale skin. 

Matt’s skin is on fire, raw and warn and desperate for everything Patrick’s giving him. He loves these moments, loves how much Patrick lets go, loves that Patrick needs him as much as he needs Patrick. It’s never more obvious then when Patrick’s gasping into Matt’s ear, whispering phrases in French that Matt doesn’t need to translate to understand.

Helped along by more than a thrill at how public – how dangerous – this is.

"That tattoo," Matt says, quietly, reaching down to push his pants low on his hips, tapping his fingers against the spot. "I was thinking it’d be nice to put your signature, right here."

Patrick’s body stiffens, shaking apart as he comes in his pants, his mouth open and humid on Matt’s neck. He swears through it, in French mostly, and Matt kisses him to swallow it. He doesn’t even notice when Patrick takes over the kiss, pushing Matt’s back against the wall, pulling Matt’s dick through the opening in his boxers and getting him off with a few, frantic tugs.

Matt groans, slumping against Patrick, shivering a little and still coming down as Patrick zips him back into his jeans. He’s sensitive and loose and Patrick has to remind him that they can’t bask in the aftershocks here, next to the vending machines, in the lobby of their hotel. 

"Right," Matt agrees, but the world is still dim from orgasm and he leans heavily on Patrick’s shoulder as they head back into the lobby and wait for the elevator.

The bell dings and Patrick leads him inside. Matt reaches up for a kiss as the doors start to close, barely stopping himself when he hears a "hold the elevator" in French or English. Matt finds it hard to tell when he’s still wracked with aftershocks.

Patrick holds the door, though, and Matt straightens when Sid appears, Claude behind him, his cheekbones stained as red as his hair.

"Thanks," Sid says, leaning against the railing and eyeing Matt. 

Matt knows what he sees and he knows exactly what Sid’s raised eyebrow means. But Claude is leaning against Sid’s shoulder, looking sullen and embarrassed and a bit amused, and Matt raises an eyebrow back.

Sid averts his eyes, and waves an awkward little wave when they get to his floor and he slips out, Claude on his heels.

"Hmm," Patrick murmurs, pressing a kiss to Matt’s neck. "I’m out of the loop."

"It happens, when you turn your phone off for days."

Patrick cups Matt’s dick, still half-hard and sensitive in his pants. "Already apologized for that."

Matt shrugs. "Could apologize some more. Maybe a little less publicly, though."

Patrick laughs.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Matt adds, as they reach Patrick's floor. "I'm pretty sure Hallsy's seen your dick."

Patrick pauses, his key halfway in the slot.

Matt slips his hand into Patrick's pocket, caressing the wet spot on the expensive fabric. "He said it was a nice dick. Congratulated me, actually."

"I should thank him."

"Probably."

"I really did miss you," Patrick adds, his voice softening a little as he gets the door open and pulls Matt inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Please comment here or come find me on [tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com)!


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